The Plan
by r4ven3
Summary: This one shot serves as a preface to a multi-chapter story (called "The Englishwoman") which I will begin to post in a few days. This is set late in S10, drifting off into an AU scenario.


Early October, 2011 – London:

The shrill ringing of his front doorbell dragged him from sleep, or not so much sleep as a very pleasant early morning daydream. With the probability of no job, and no significant other, such daydreams were all he had. A glance at his bedside clock told him that his visitor was an early riser. He could roll over in bed and draw the duvet over his head, or he could satisfy his curiosity, and see who was at the door. Again the doorbell rang, and so he quickly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, only then remembering that he'd been sleeping naked, and that the sight of his own naked flesh first thing in the morning would shatter any fantasies he may have had about Ruth turning up at his front door to announce her desire to sleep with him. He and his friends at university had had a saying - when they could look down at themselves and no longer see their dick for their belly, then life as they knew it would be over. Harry stood beside the bed and looked down. Were it not for some mild early morning tumescence, he'd not be able to see his. As it was, he could only see the very end of it. Sad times. Still, where he was headed, weight loss would be a given, so not all was lost.

He quickly pulled on the trunks he'd left on the floor by the bed the night before, and shrugged on his dressing gown, pushed his feet into his slippers, and hurried downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time. He reached the front door just as the doorbell rang for a third time. He unlocked the door, and then opened it with a flourish, hoping his irritation came across loud and clear to his visitor. Who visits anyone before six in the morning?

Who else would it be? "Ruth," he said, his face softening from a frown to gentle resignation. On this, the morning that he is to be taken into custody by members of the CIA, the last person he wished to be seeing was her. His humiliation was now complete. "I hope you haven't come to gloat."

Ruth's eyes took in his state of undress, eventually lifting to meet his own eyes. "On the contrary," she said softly, momentarily dropping her eyes to his lips, then back to his eyes. "I have news."

Well … that was not what he'd expected. He stood back, opening the door wider. "You'd best come in," he said. As she slipped past him, he looked down at himself before grasping the ties of his dressing gown, and in an unconscious expression of modesty, he retied them, only tighter, before closing the door behind her. "I'll take your coat," he said, reaching out with one hand.

"Your house is warm," she observed, her eyes darting up to meet his, and then down, while her fingers flew over the buttons as she unbuttoned her coat.

"I have heating," he added unnecessarily, hoping she wouldn't take it as a comment on her cold flat. "Would you like breakfast?"

When she nodded, he let out the breath he'd been holding. Whatever she had come to tell him, she was still prepared to share with him his last meal on British shores. They shared another awkward and uncomfortable moment as she handed him his coat to hang up, which he did with one hand, while with the other he held the front of his dressing gown together. He quickly glanced at her to find her eyes not on him, but gazing down the hallway to the rooms at the back of the house. He reached out with one arm, showing her the way.

"I got you out of bed, didn't I?" she said as they entered the dark kitchen. When he nodded, she rattled on, while he turned on the light, and pulled out a chair for her. "Gosh, I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

Harry was already filling the kettle from the tap over the sink. _Interrupt_? Whatever did that mean? "Interrupt?" he asked, turning to meet her eyes, bright with mischief.

"You know .. interrupt … anything .. of an intimate nature," she added, eventually looking down at her fingers, her embarrassment clear.

Harry turned back to grab a couple of mugs from the wooden tree. Chance would be a fine thing. The only `intimate' activity he had these days was with himself, and he hadn't felt like indulging in that for several weeks at least. "No, Ruth. As always, I was alone in bed." When he turned back to her, she was staring hard at her fingers, which were clasped on the table top, but he could detect a flush on her cheeks. Was she testing him? When wasn't she testing him?

She lifted her eyes to his, and yes, her cheeks were flushed, hopefully with embarrassment. "I just thought that with Elena ..."

The kettle was heating, and he was about to open the fridge door for the milk, when he heard her. He stood up and quickly turned. " _Elena_? You think I want _her_? Do you think my private moments are spent longing for _her_? I thought you knew me, Ruth."

Ruth dropped her eyes and shrugged, and her voice came out as tiny, diminished. "I .. I don't know. It was meant to be your last night before … they take you away … and I thought you might .. you know, be looking for ..."

"You thought I might trawl some bars, and bring back a _stranger_? Is _that_ what you think of me?"

Ruth shook her head, dropping her eyes. "I … I don't … really -"

"Ruth, there is only one woman with whom I would want to share my bed, and yet despite my devotion, she continues to .. deny my -"

"Don't."

"Don't what, Ruth? Don't speak the truth?"

Again she lifted her eyes to his, and for the first time in some time he saw the pain in them. "Don't … throw that in my face .. Harry."

"Why not? I'm angry ... _b_ _loody_ angry, and I believe I have every reason to be."

"I know you do, which is why ..."

Frustrated by her reticence, he turned from her and again opened the fridge door, grabbing the milk, and a packet of bacon rashers, along with a carton of a half dozen eggs, which he tucked under his left arm. "Bacon and eggs for you?" he said, not daring to look at her.

"You didn't let me finish," she said, and he detected the anger in her voice. There was his anger, and her anger, and with him about to leave the country it was all such a mess. He stood still for a moment, caught between the past and the present, the fridge and the bench, his anger with her, and his unspoken, irrational, unrequited, all-consuming love for her. He sighed heavily, placing all three items on the bench. He then poured the boiling water over the tea bags in their mugs, and added sugar and milk to both - two sugars and a dash of milk for him, and one sugar and a generous pour of milk for her. He stirred each with the same spoon before placing the mugs on the table, and then sat in on the opposite side of the table to her, releasing his breath in a heavy sigh.

"Go ahead, Ruth," he said quietly, lifting his mug of tea to his lips. "I'm sorry to have interrupted you."

He waited, but she said nothing, so he lifted his eyes to see her contemplating the surface of her tea, and it was apparent she was searching for the best place to begin. "Last night I worked late," she began quietly, her eyes still on her tea, which she'd carefully placed on the table in front of her. "Towers came back from a late meeting with the PM." She quickly lifted her eyes to his, and then dropped them. "The PM had been negotiating with members of the CIA, and … they wouldn't budge. They still wanted you to … pay for the death of Jim Coaver."

Harry grunted. So, what else was new?

"Then, I shared with Towers my idea .. my plan .. to keep you in your job .. to keep you working at Section D." When he lifted his eyes to hers, she was watching him, the slightest of smiles on her lips. He was desperate to interrupt, to say something cutting, something incredibly clever, but he held back his words. "Whilst the Home Secretary was not at all happy with my suggestion, I was determined, and would not back down. His comment was something like, `Is Harry aware of the depth of your loyalty to him?'"

"Of course I know how loyal you are, Ruth, but what was your suggestion?" He was beginning to feel an uncomfortable gnawing in his gut, as if a rather small rat had taken up residence inside him.

"In the end, Towers backed down, and at midnight he rang the PM, who accepted my suggestion, and then spent the next two hours in conference with two senior members of the CIA – one in London, and one in Washington. By four-fifty this morning, my suggestion was rubber stamped, meaning that you are free to continue your life in London."

Very gradually, a light turned on inside his head, and Ruth's evasiveness, her alluding to some kind of ideal solution, was beginning to take shape. "Over my bloody dead body," he snapped, standing suddenly, the backs of his legs pushing back the chair so that it tipped over, clattering against the fridge door. "You will _not_ be taking my place, Ruth!" On the word, _not,_ he smashed his palm onto the table top, causing Ruth to jump, curving her fingers around her mug of tea to prevent it spilling.

"You don't know yet what is the plan, Harry, so sit down and stop posturing. It's not what you think."

The tone of her voice told him to listen to her, so he took a deep breath, then turned to pick up his chair, placing it near the table ready for him to sit down. He could feel himself close to tears. The last thing he needed was to be crying in front of Ruth. Picking up his mug of tea, he noticed that some had spilled, so he distracted himself by taking a cloth from beside the sink, and then wiping the table and the bottom and sides of the mug. By the time he again sat down he was feeling a little calmer. He sat with his eyes on the table, and consciously brought his breathing back under control. "So tell me, Ruth, what is your plan?"

"You are to remain at Section D, and continue working. The day after tomorrow I will fly to the US, and for the next two years I will be working for the CIA – as an analyst and translator. I will be living independently, but they will require me to report to an agent each week. At the end of the two years I will be free to come home. I have it all in writing. The PM is backing me all the way, so that should any member of the CIA attempt to prevent my return, he has the backing of certain influential senior CIA staff."

"You could just as easily do that while living here, in London. So … why go to the trouble of flying you to the US?"

"I think its has to do with … keeping up the appearance of a victory. I'll appear to be under house arrest in the US, although I'll be free to … move about, although not, apparently, to have contact with you."

 _What bullshit_ , he thought. He dropped his eyes from Ruth, and allowed himself to accept that what she was saying was a given, and nothing he could do or say would change it. Whilst he felt panicked on Ruth's behalf, he also felt shamed .. that the woman he loved was about to save him … again. As much as he longed to share that particular thought, he kept it to himself; it was hardly news to Ruth, and she wouldn't appreciate any level of self-pitying on his part. "What about Towers?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. "He can't be thrilled about this."

"No ... he's not, but he can see the benefits to be had in keeping you here. He's planning to keep my job open until my return. It's a new position, and so not available to anyone but me."

Harry nodded. She was good, his Ruth, and he was relieved that Towers was able to recognise how gifted she was. He sat back in his chair and sighed, lifting his gaze to the window, where the early morning twilight had painted a pale pink glow across the sky. It appeared to be a clear morning, and there he was, hoping for rain – rain and grey skies to match his mood. "And I suppose nothing I say can change your mind about this." He was desperate. Two years was such a very long time.

"Nothing, Harry. Think of it as my gift to you."

 _Jesus_! That made him feel so much worse. "And what can be my reciprocal gift to you, Ruth?" His voice was very quiet.

"To have you still standing on that wall on my return. That will be gift enough."

"Then I should make you breakfast," and so he made them both bacon and eggs, and all the while – as he was cracking the eggs and turning the bacon - he thought of her, and what she was about to do. He knew it was a gift of love to him, and the least he could do was to accept it without whining about how much he'd miss her. Except that he didn't want to accept it. He wanted to fight for her freedom, and to put himself in her place. That was what he did best, and he believed it was what he _should_ do … and yet ...

As if reading his mind, she spoke from right behind him. "Nothing can stop me doing this, Harry, so whatever scheme you come up with, I'll not be supporting it."

He turned then, the spatula still in his hand. "You know me so well, Ruth."

Her eyes moved up and down his body until they returned to his face. "Not so well," she said, and he was able to detect the mischief in her eyes. "For instance, I don't know what you're wearing under that dressing gown, although it looks like not much at all."

This time it was his face which flushed. He felt the heat moving from his face, down his neck to his chest. He stopped it moving further by closing his eyes and picturing the Home Secretary in full rant. When he opened his eyes, Ruth's eyebrows were drawn together in a frown. "Are you all right?" she asked, to which he nodded.

"I was thinking that perhaps once you return to London we can … see about that." When her eyebrows drew even closer together, he clarified his statement. "Perhaps I'll he able to share with you … the mysteries of what I wear under my dressing gown." This time it was Ruth who blushed, dropping her eyes to hide just how much she was blushing. "Of course, that's only if you want to, Ruth," he added.

When Ruth lifted her head, the flush still darkened her cheeks, but she was again back in control. "I think it's about time we ate breakfast," she said, her segue neat and effective.

He nodded, and turned back to the cooker. As much as he knew he was about to miss her desperately, perhaps two years apart would make both their hearts grow and expand, all the better to make room for the other. He certainly hoped so. Already he was looking forward to her return.


End file.
